


Confession Sacrament

by Nimravidae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale struggles with religious shit, Begging, Dom/sub Undertones, Femdom, Genderfluid Character, Leather, Multi, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Pegging, Top Drop Crowley, as per usual, sex tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Aziraphale needs a second to forget all the horrors he played part in. Crowley has just the thing.(AKA Nanny!Crowley pegs the fuck out of Aziraphale because we need it)





	Confession Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wellreadfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellreadfan/gifts), [triedunture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/gifts).



> I lied. THIS is the most self-indulgent selfish thing I've ever written. I wanted to see pretty domineering lady in a strap-on. 
> 
> Blessings the fuck upon everyone who listened to me SCREAM about pegging on a Monday afternoon. Y'all have done the Lords work, and She'll be coming to speak with you.

The sound of heels clicking down the hall, by itself, shouldn’t have sent freezing shivers down Aziraphale’s spine. It should’ve been another one of the many various noises the cottage made, or more accurately one of the various noises made by the other tenant.

Crowley regularly made a whole host of noises, ranging from angry little mumbles to pleased little huffs. Complaints vocalized through hisses, growls, groans, and quite frequently words as well. He puttered about in the gardens and greenhouses, rattled about the kitchen, snored in the bedroom. But the precise sound of high heels hitting the wooden floors?

That sound Aziraphale rarely heard.

He had been hunched over the desk in his study, dim lamp throwing golden light around haphazardly as he poured over a copy of _Marquise of O,_ attempting to coax the truth of its provenance out of its pages. The evening before had bled into the morning, with something innocuous setting off something uncomfortable in the center of Aziraphale’s Grace. All it took was a little nudge, reminding him of some terrible thing done in Heaven’s name—some awful thing he couldn’t stop, something he aided and abetted thinking Gabriel knew what he was telling Aziraphale to do.

After the end of days, Aziraphale wasn’t too sure on that notion anymore. Now reminders of those moments, of Floods and children and cities burning and men with swords, only filled him with conflicted dread. He’d poured it all out, overflowing with regret he couldn’t name, to Crowley—as he frequently did over the course of a few hours.

Crowley, like a stone made of scales and hellfire, held fast, kissed away his tears, and smoothed his hair back, promising he’d help him through it.

And it would appear that promise had since come true. See, there was a way Aziraphale rather liked to work out his frustrations, his stressors. Gain penance.

The heels clipped tight against the floor. He couldn’t move, eyes fixating on the same line again and again and again. _You would not have appeared—you would not—you would._ The noise stopped right in the doorway to the study, and Aziraphale could see it. Crowley drawn against the wood frame, hair perfectly coiffed and clothes immaculately tailored—not quite the nanny get-up from their time with Warlock.

This was always a bit different. That was not to say the previous outfit had been _matronly_ by any stretch of the imagination. A bit too tight, a bit too high. Aziraphale never could take his eyes off Crowley, no matter what form was shimmering before him.

“Mouse,” the voice behind him, sultry and heavy, purred. Not angel, not Aziraphale. Mouse. A shiver raced down his spine. His body was already reacting with a pulse of electric heat. “I hear you’ve been awfully naughty.”

Mouse. His stomach did uncomfortable things, twisting up in knots of arousal. What snakes swallow whole.

Aziraphale turned carefully, finding Crowley in exactly the same way he’d thought. “Madam,” he swallowed around the word, watching a perfectly-shaped eyebrow raise over low-gold eyes.

Her hips swung with every step and the tight-cling of her smart skirt didn’t so much as shiver. Aziraphale tracked his eyes from her immaculate curls down to the cut of her cheekbone, the rise of her jaw, the perfect plum of her lipstick. He drank in as much of her as he could, the line of her skirt, the snake-skin print of her pantyhose, the shadow of her nipples through her sheer blouse.

Oh good _Lord_ she was going to kill him _._ She stalked him, properly, across the room—right up until the moment she was ready to pounce, one perfectly manicured, perfectly sharp, nail down the buttons of his waistcoat. “Well?” She asked, in the sort of voice that immediately required a response.

Aziraphale swallowed, throat bobbing as he tried not to imagine what she could do with those nails. “I—I have. Been naughty.” Another swallow. His mouth was dry, how did his mouth get dry? His mouth can’t get dry. “Madam.”

Crowley stepped forward, her chest pressing against his. He backed up and she pressed forward. One step back, one forward. One back, one forward—until she had crowded him against the desk, hard wooden edge biting into the small of his back. She leaned in further, every unnecessary but entirely necessary breath pushed him against the swell of her breasts. “You know what happens to naughty angels?” She asked, placing her hands on either side of the desk.

Caging him, trapping him. “They get,” oh there went his voice again. It crackled and fizzled out under the weight of her cinnamon-gum breath. It took a moment for his brain to fully shut down, reboot, and restarted as she laid her unimpressed, level, gaze against him. “They get punished,” he finished.

Deep plum lips split into a proper grin, flashing too-white teeth too-wide to relax the twisting nerves in his stomach. “Good little mouse,” she croons, dragging her nose along the line of his jaw, all the way down until she found his throat.

A kiss. Too gentle for this, too gentle for nights like these. Finger came back and walked back up to his throat, slowly working on the button there, then down, then down. Her other hand dipped to cup him through his trousers. Already aching, already hard.

He needed this, he needed this like he needed—like he needed—like he needed books. Eyelids fluttering shut under her touch, Aziraphale tried to bite back the gasp that came when she squeezed him, a nearly too-rough, nearly too-perfect movement.

His teeth caught on his lower lip as she chuckled, dark and heavy, lips dragging up to turn her face to his. “Worked up, are we?”

“Yes, Madam,” he said, knees going a bit wobbly as she started to stroke him, rubbing through the material as she expertly undid the buttons to his coat.

“Strip,” she told him, giving him one last bite at his chin and one last squeeze of his groin before pulling back. Aziraphale had to take a moment, shaking hands fumbling for his bowtie. He winced as chair legs scraped across the floor, glancing up to see Crowley draped effortlessly over a plush dusty-mauve wingback, moved so she could watch the show.

One long, slender, beautiful, leg draped over the arm, the other foot against the floor. It left her spread, tauntingly so. Just a peek of the edge of her garters, a shadow still obscuring the valley between her thighs. A place Aziraphale had frequently explored. His eyes fixate there for a moment before following back up to where she had undone the buttons of her blouse, palms smoothing up and down her breasts.

Again, he swallowed, and tried to steel his nerves enough to set aside the tartan bow. Followed by his jacket, carefully folded over the back of the chair. Crowley’s fingers inched downward, the cold press and drag of her eyes burning, searing and frostbitten all at once over the exposed valley of Aziraphale’s throat.

His breathing came harder and harder, rougher and rougher as he shrugged out of the waistcoat and started working on his shirt, fingers stumbling and clumsy with the buttons. “Don’t keep my waiting,” Crowley threatened, breath teetering on the edge of a gasp and Aziraphale can’t, _can’t,_ force himself to look up at her.

No, he knew where those fingers went, smart and deft and sliding along slick folds, circling sensitive flesh. Getting more and more heated, more and more alight, all while watching _him._

His blood boiled in his veins and for a moment, a brief, insane, moment he genuinely debated tearing at his clothes. It took another pause, another steady breath—where Crowley didn’t taunt him, didn’t egg him forward—until he could manage off enough of the buttons to slip the shirt off, not bothering to fold this one before toeing off his shoes, socks, pants.

Aziraphael stripped until he was bare, entirely exposed, just for her. Only then did he look up, her skirt now hitched up over her thighs, three fingers rubbing slow circles over her clit as she watched with hooded, heavy, eyes.

Her thighs inched further apart. “Well?” She breathed, a slow, demanding, noise.

Aziraphale’s knees met the ground, glass baubles marking travels they took together and antiques from various eras clinked in their places at the force of his submission. Eyes, widened in desperation to drink in more of her, to see more of her, fixated where Crowley sprawled, fingers curling in a wordless order that he was helpless to resist.

He crawled to her, on his hands and knees—he crawled after a demon. A gorgeous demon, whose ankles he kissed and whose stockings he dragged his lips up and down. Everything about it should have been wrong—but nothing about it was. Not when she reached down, carding her fingers through his hair and touching his face, not when he kissed her wrist, revenant and nearly worshipful.

“Little mouse,” she purred, fingers dragging over his lips. “You’ve sinned, haven’t you.”

“I have,” it fell quickly, immediately, from his lips. He sounded wretched, he _was_ wretched. “How do I serve my penance, madam?”

He knew the answer, he always knew the answer. Her fingers slid to the back of his head, her hips canted towards him. He pressed forward and kissed her sweetly, where the dim lamplight glinted off her slick, perfect cunt. She sighed, and he pressed forward, tongue sweeping along her folds once, then twice, then dipping into the hellfire heat between them.

Aziraphale knew how to make her come undone, how to take her apart stitch by stitch, the curl of his tongue against her slit, the pant of breath over her mound, the seal of his lips around her clit. Her breathing picked up, her fingers flexed in his hair and he lets his eyes drift shut. Focuses on the taste of her heavy on his tongue, the way her body reacts and twists and tightens around him as he slid his tongue inside her, just for a moment. Just to taste her, to feel her hot and silky and perfect on his tongue.

She was all he needed to focus on, all he needed to breath. All he needed to want. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed but the two of them.

His hands waited at his side, fingers twitching, desperate to touch, to hold, to have, as he ate her out like she’s the body and blood. He took his communion from her cunt, swallowing a mouthful of saliva and slick before diving back in, feeling her drip down his chin like sweet wine.

She tore at his hair when she reached the tipping point, gasping a high, cutting, noise again and again and again before her body convulsed, shaking and grasping to him like she was trying to draw him further against her, further into her.

Like a good little mouse, he pulled back, sitting on his heels, flushed cock bobbing, ignored, against his belly. She swallowed, stretching out an endless leg before pushing herself up. “Over the table,” she said, adjusting her skirt. Aziraphale rose and did promptly as he was told (the books had moved, with just the faintest whiff of demonic miracle as the underlying cause.

He presented his rear to her, chest to the cool wood, as he listened for her movements. For the click of her heels, for the sound of leather stretching and growing from nothing at all. A glance over his shoulder proved what she was changing into, her neck cracking as she fixed her lipstick—as if totally unaware of the change to her outfit. In place of the skirt and blouse, she was now in a full snake-skin harness, cutting sharp black lines across her body, caging her breasts and leaving beautiful swaths of pale flesh exposed, ready.

For what? Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain. His throat tightened as his eyes flickered down to where the snake finished coiling around her, a large dark, fake, cock, bobbing innocently from between her hips. It was held firmly in place by an ornate metal ring, fashioned in the form of a snakes mouth.

His eyes shut and he turned his head back forward, dropping his chin to the table. “Yes, madam,” he told her, listening to her approach. He still flinched, instinctive, as bony hands sweep up and down his sides, smoothing over his back to the round of his cheeks.

She palmed them apart, drawing a rolling shudder down his spine as she blew a cool stream of air over his hole. He jerked half towards her and half away.

He swore silently as she tutted. “That’s not a good little mouse, now is it?” She asked, voice closer and closer to his body as she leaned forward, lips brushing the meat of his asscheek. “Good mice stay still. Wouldn’t want me to have to,” a snap and invisible bounds wrapped, tight, around him for a moment—just a single, breathless, moment—”constrict you?”

 _Yes,_ he wanted to scream, _constrict me, hold me, making me think of nothing but you._ But the idea of being bound on a table, far too close to the altar for comfort. His stomach flip-flopped as memories of Isaac and Abel and all those people he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to save or not start to roll in—

They paused, fizzling when she sank her teeth into his skin, a vicious, bruising bite. He cried out, toes curling, and she bit him again. She doesn’t break the skin, even though he knew she could. If she wanted to, she could swallow him whole, consume him into nothing.

Still holding him open, she dropped her head forward more, lapping over his hole. It elicited a gasp, a twitch, a pleasant little grown. Crowley ate Aziraphale with unbridled passion, sharp, smart, tongue rolling over him, pushing past his rim and sending nothing but pleased sparks racing over every inch of his skin.

He burned with the unbridled need to touch. His fingers twitched downwards, towards the edge of the table, towards where his cock leaked desperately onto the floor beneath him. Spit dribbled down, a sticky-slick hot path down the back of his balls as she worked him open with tongue and fingers that were slicker than they should be.

 _Fuck._ He froze. He really hoped he didn’t say that out loud. Judging by the way Crowley froze behind him, slowly pulling her face back but leaving two fingers buried inside him, millimeters from teasing his prostate, he did.

“What was that?” She crooned, obviously entertained.

“It—it wasn’t—Madam, I really didn’t—” Fuck. Now that he’d thought it, said it, it was all he could think. Fuck. The hand not currently spreading him open, came down hard against his left asscheek. He tensed around her fingers, making the burn only deepen. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “Really, madam, I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

Something hot splashed down his cheek and his breath came harder, ragged. She spanked him, hard, again. “Please, I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t,” a horrid, gasping breath. “I didn’t mean to.” Another spank, this one echoing in the emptiness of the room, right ahead of Aziraphale’s sob. “I’m so sorry, madam, I won’t—I won’t be—I’ll only be good, _good.”_ Good, he’ll only be good.

Nothing but good. The tears don’t stop coming and his erection doesn’t flag a beat as she continues fingering him open, stopping every few moments to tell him to continue babbling breathless apologies, keep reminding her how sorry he is, how desperate he is for forgiveness and she’ll give it to him.

She was merciful. Benevolent. He begged, _begged,_ for her forgiveness as she slid her slim fingers out, instead pushing the blunt head of her fake cock against his slickened hole.

“You want my forgiveness, little mouse?” She asked, pushing forward for a moment, the thick head promising a terrible burn as she teases him with it. Not even breaching him just yet.

He sniffed, a hiccuping sob falling from his lips. “Yes,” he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, she didn’t chastise him. “Please.”

It was just a moment, a blissful, raw, ethereal, moment where everything but her ceased to exist. It all fell away as she pushed into him, like he was finally whole—like she and him were one again, joined the way they were always meant to. The slide of her cock inside him, the feeling of her pushing deeper, deeper inside him until he thought he would burst.

Nothing else mattered. No Heaven, no Hell—nothing.

It was just them, in a breathless, lingering, moment punctuated by nails gripping his hips and lips dragging over the base of his neck. She was buried, entirely inside him.

If they both focused, incredibly hard, Aziraphale could feel her pulsate. But he couldn’t focus on anything but her breathing, but the feeling of her nipples barely brushing his back as she hunched over him. He couldn’t focus on anything but the way she pulled out and pushed back in, as slow and precise as she stalked him.

All he could feel was her. Within him, without him. She started slow, a few testing thrusts before she slotted her hands around his hips properly. Nails bit into him—sharp, almost painful.

Then she fucked him. His cry was breathless, hands flying to the edge of the table to steady himself as everything rocked around them. The lamp clattered away but the light didn’t go out, it burned as if it hadn’t moved an inch as Crowley slammed back into him, shaking Aziraphale to his core again and again and again.

If he thought there was nothing before, it wasn’t at all like there was nothing now. Now the fires consumed him, there was nothing left of him but ash. He burned from the inside out as every thrust, every roll, ever pound of Crowley’s hips against his own left him burning and burning and burning, his orgasm rolling unstoppably towards him without a single hand on him.

Crowley pushed him to the brink, scrambling her nails down his back, his sides, his hips—he knew she was leaving angry red lines, promising welts that Aziraphale would keep burning against his skin for days if his vessel allows him. A reminder every time he sits, every time he breathes, every time the fabric of his clothes rub against them. Nothing but her, nothing but Crowley—he couldn’t think of anything else.

She tilted, just enough, just the way she knew he needed, the way she knew he wanted. Raw, rough, unrepentant, unforgiving forgiveness that Crowley couldn’t give but Aziraphale took anyway.

When he came, it was with a silent cry, eyes screwed shut and mess made properly over the floor and the bottom of the table. She slowed steadily, milking him for all he had. She left him pulsing and panting around her, her forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.

He could hear her panting, her hand raising to rub over the scratches that now stopped burning. Slowly, she pulled out, hushing his whimper with a loving little. “Quiet, little mouse,” she said, the whoosh of infernal magic suggesting she changed back—or maybe he changed back. Aziraphale couldn’t open his eyes to check.

He could grunt though, which was what he did. Behind him, soft laughter. The same as before. _Good,_ he thought to himself. _She’s still there._

He came down inch by inch as Crowley fixed the furniture, leaving Aziraphale a few moments to collect himself (he always preferred it that way. And he knew Crowley needed it too.

Making him sob wasn’t her favorite thing in the world, but she very happily obliged when he needed it. He sniffed, rubbing his face and going to push himself up, but in a flash, Crowley was there, neatly manicured hand on the small of his back.

“Stay there, angel,” she said, thumb rubbing soft little crescent moons. “Putting everything back to sorts then I’ll take you to bed.”

Bed. A bed sounded nice. Not that Aziraphale was going to sleep. He just needed space to...digest. Come down. A few snaps and Crowley was back, helping Aziraphale properly to his feet. He blinked and looked around.

The mess had been cleaned, the books back in their proper place, and the chair returned to its home by the fireplace. He opened his mouth to thank her, but she hushed him with a gentle, sweet little kiss. “Bed,” she said, and—another blink and they were there.

“A lot of miracles,” Aziraphale mentioned, feeling exhausted for her as he’s deposited carefully onto the mattress.

“Well, you can get me back for them later,” Crowley replied, pouring herself right back in beside him. She stripped down with a casual wave, sprawling over the sheets with a languid grace. A blink, a shake of a head, and another stretch of limbs and the image of the nanny was gone.

Aziraphale yawned against his better judgement and matched his lover in position, sprawling and stretching. There was an ache in his rear, the sort of pleasant reminder. If he wanted, it’d be gone by morning.

Really, if he wanted, it would be gone immediately.

He didn’t, though. He wanted it to stay. At least for now.

A few short beats, and Crowley shifted, rolling onto his side with a sniff and wrapping around Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale’s fingers find the coppery mess atop his head, free of the pomade and mousse by miracle alone.

“You didn’t have to do that just for me,” he told him, looking down where Crowley was busy making himself as close to one with Aziraphale’s body as humanly possible. “Not if it made you uncomfortable.”

A cool breath, puffed over his skin. “It’s my own skin, I can’t be uncomfortable in it. If I wasn’t feeling the outfit, wouldn’t’ve worn it. Besides,” another sniff. “Wasn’t just for you, angel,” he teased, but his eyes were squeezed shut. “You alright?”

“Of course,” his fingers trailed down, to the nape of Crowley’s neck. He fingered the soft, fine, hairs there for a bit, scratching blunt nails over the sensitive skin. The snake coiled around him shivered. “I trust you not to hurt me. Not seriously.”

Crowley grunted, nose pressed to the left side of Aziraphale’s chest. He made a conscious choice to keep his heart beating.

“I needed it, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him, for once his throat not closing at the idea of the wash of guilt. He ached too much for that, too sweetly under the raw power of Crowley’s forgiveness. He could remember, so vividly, the demons rage, his anger when he heard what happened in God’s name. The fire that sparked with every injustice that Aziraphale played party to. “Truely. So thank you. For that.”

Liquid gold eyes blinked up at him, wide and expressive. “Any time, angel,” he said. “Any time.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](https://tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hipsteroric) waiting for Nanny Ashworth to just step on me already


End file.
